“Dad…” Evan wheezed, his voice breaking into a ragged, breathless whisper:
“I’m just not strong enough, Dad… I tried to block it… I dropped my hands…”
The words cut deeper into my ribs than any piece of shrapnel I had caught in the Helmand Province.
I leaned down, pressing my forehead gently against his temple, my hand resting warm and immovable over his shaking shoulder:
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“You stood your ground for four rounds against a grown man, Evan,” I whispered softly:
“You didn't run. Your foundation is solid. Take my truck keys from my jacket pocket. Walk out to the truck, turn on the heater, and drink the thermos of broth on the passenger seat. Wait for me.”
Evan wiped his nose on his sleeve, took the keys with trembling fingers, and limped through the glass double doors toward the rain-slicked gravel lot.
Once the door clicked shut, I stood up.
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